“It’s complicated. Before you come to see me, there’s something I need you to do. Okay?”

Lisa was crying, struggling.

“I need you to do this. It’s important,” Jeff said. “Are you listening?”

Lisa swallowed a large gasp. “I’m listening.”

After Lisa surrendered her borrowed phone and her bag, removed her shoes for inspection and emptied her pockets of all items into the plastic tray as instructed, the female uniformed officer patted her down.

Lisa endured the momentary humiliation of the officer’s gloved hands groping her.

Then, as another officer, a man with red hair and freckles, led Lisa through a secure section of the Miami-Dade headquarters complex, memories replayed in her mind: Jeff so thrilled at the promotion, their move to Palm Mirage Creek, their beautiful house and her pregnancy. Now, she was numbed by the surreal twist her life had taken.

I was attacked in my home, and now Jeff’s been arrested for the murder of a woman he may or may not have had sex with. Is my husband—Did my husband—

Everything’s so horribly wrong.

Reflexively, one hand went to her tummy as she forced herself to keep calm and stay strong. But fear gnawed at her, fear that now, with every step she took, she was losing a part of herself, that nothing would ever, could ever, be the same again.

They came to a visiting room with three small, portioned booths, each separated by a glass window that faced an identical opposite booth. Each side had a handset phone on the left wall of the respective partition.

The officer gestured for Lisa to select a booth.

She chose the middle one, and she took small comfort that she was alone in the room and was uneasy with its clinical brightness, void of empathy, void of warmth. Something cold and dark dwelled within these walls.

Keys jangled, a door on the other side of the glass opened, and Lisa caught her breath.

Jeff entered alone.

He was wearing a dress shirt with no tie, his collar open. His pants lacked a belt. He took the booth seat across from Lisa. As they both reached for their handsets, she saw that he was not handcuffed and that his five o’clock stubble had started, accentuating the lines carved into his face.

“Oh, Jeff.” Tears filled her eyes—her life was out of control.

He pointed to the cameras and signs, noting all calls and actions were being recorded.

Lisa gave him a nervous nod. “I don’t understand why you’re here,” she said.

“They want to question me about Vida in the wake of all that’s happened,” he said. “Did you do what I needed you to do?”